


All The Days We've Yet To Live

by obsidiangrey



Series: States 'Verse [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8057218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsidiangrey/pseuds/obsidiangrey
Summary: Snippets of writing set in the states 'verse, bits and pieces of things that don't have their own story yet or are too short to post as standalones. Requests welcome!





	1. Chapter 1

He was past the point of numbness, past being tired, past the capability to be angry or sad. He didn't really feel much of anything, just a dull ache which endlessly pressed down on his chest and suffocated him until the world spun 'round and began to go dark.

In the hallway, he sat down on the floor and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. There were no shouts from the meeting room like he had expected, no crashing of objects being thrown, not even a raised voice. Still, he knew when his father slipped out of the door, anger simmering just out of sight and pushed below the surface, and sat down next to him.

“I've neglected you,” he said after a long silence.

Rhode Island snorted, the bitterness he felt suddenly rearing its head and becoming so strong he could almost taste it. “Yeah.”

A longer silence. “I've been a poor excuse for a Nation these past few months.”

He thought of the locked door in their temporary home in DC and South Carolina's shouts and New Hampshire's pained grin and New York's nightmares and Alaska when they found her and Washington District in so much _pain_ -

-and stopped. His chest was starting to hurt.

“Worse, I've been a terrible excuse for a father.”

****It's one of those things in which people find out about the Nation's and everything goes to shit. America's been out of commission or something, leaving a state to take his place at meetings, but those are some pretty big shoes to fill.**

 

* * *

 

The worst feeling in the world was knowing what was about to happen and being unable to do anything about it.

The body cameras relaying a live feed back to the White House showed a tense standoff, New Hampshire being held at knifepoint. He looked terrible, thin and gaunt and hardly able to stand on his own. Still, there was something in his eyes that was scaring Rhode Island.

America's hand was gripping his shoulder so tightly that it hurt.

“Don't come any closer or I kill your precious state,” the man with the knife said.

That same look flickered in New Hampshire's eyes once again. He couldn't possible know that his family was watching, and most likely he was just looking at the leader of the strike team, but from their viewpoint it looked as though New Hampshire was staring straight into the camera.

“Not the way I roll,” he announced in a raspy voice that was far too steady, and the whole room seemed to freeze. “Live free or die, you bastards.”

And he jerked the hand around his neck upward, the blade plunging into his throat with a crimson squirt.

Rhode Island couldn't breathe.

The world dissolved into a haze of white noise. Maybe people were talking- he didn't know- there was a stake through his heart and his lungs were full of molten lead-

couldn't breathe-

* * *

America had stopped paying attention to the video screen.

He knew each of his children well. He wasn't perfect, he didn't need any help being reminded of that, thank you very _much_ , but he knew the little things about his kids that came simply from being the one to raise them. He knew when the Carolina twins were having an argument because they would still sit right next to one another, but stiff-backed and not saying a word. He could tell the difference between New York and Massachusetts' arguing and friendly bickering. He knew when Minnesota started feeling left out by the pitch of her voice, when Washington slipped into one of his moods, when Hawaii was up and pacing his room because of nightmares seventy years in repetition.

He knew the look in New Hampshire's eye when he got a new idea, one that was probably crazy and could quite possibly end in explosions and a lot of fire. He knew when the explosions coming from New Hampshire's room were accidental or on purpose.

He knew that there was no way the team sent in to extract the state would move forward when said state was being held at gunpoint, even though it was on public record now that they _couldn't stay dead_.

So he knew, when he saw that look in New Hampshire's eye, what was going to happen, even though it ripped him apart inside and even though he desperately hoped it wouldn't. Rhode Island did not.

The moment his son's body crumpled to the ground, sudden deadweight causing the man holding him to drop him in surprise, the team relaying the feed and the government men receiving the feed sprang into action, everything becoming a flurry of noise and movement.

Rhode Island had gone very pale, an ashen kind of gray, and for a single terrible moment he was totally blank. Then his face twitched, and his expression crumpled. America did the only thing he could do and pulled his son into his arms like he had done when they were still fighting for independence so so so many years ago.

“He'll be all right,” he whispered into his son's hair. “It's going to be okay. He'll be all right, I promise, I promise...”

One of the suits looked over. His Nation _glared_ until he looked away, and walked from the room without another word.

In the hallway was where Rhode Island truly lost it, shaking with silent sobs and clinging to the back of his father's bomber jacket like a lifeline.

****See the note for the previous drabble. People who harbor malicious intent towards the Nations got their hands on some States. New Hampshire isn't the kind to go down without a fight.**

 

* * *

 

The rain lashed against the windows, which rattled in their frames from the wind. Massachusetts and New York were huddled together on the couch under a thick quilt, hair still dripping from their mad run through the streets of Boston in search of cover. Massachusetts had folded himself up into a little ball, his head tucked underneath New York's chin.

“You're a surprisingly decent pillow,” he mumbled.

New York snorted, continuing to run his fingers lazily through his boyfriend's hair. “High praise. I'm flattered.”

“You should be.”

Most of the lights were out, though there was a dim glow from the kitchen down the hall. Though rainstorms made them both nervous for a wide variety of reasons, inside with one another, they both felt safe.

 ****I didn't** _**mean** _ **to ship these two, I swear. It just... happened.**

 

* * *

“It's quiet.”

Delaware looked morosely at her father. Her eyes were rimmed red from crying, and there were smears of dark purple underneath; lack of sleep had taken its toll. She was much too pale. Next to her, America looked worse, if that was even possible. His glasses were missing, his hair in disarray. He hadn't bothered to get dressed for the day; his shirt was untucked, top few buttons left undone.

The two stood in the empty living room of a house in Vermont. Though it was well past midday, there was no noise in the walls which had housed their family for the past few decades.

“I know.”

“I miss them, Delaney.”

There were eleven empty seats at the long oak table in their dining room.

“So do I, Pa.”

She couldn't keep her voice from breaking.

* * *

A line of boys and girls stood in front of Jefferson Davis, chins tilted up with an innate pride and defiance, fire in their eyes – though who their rage was directed towards, they weren't entirely sure.

“We'll fight for your cause,” they said, each in their own separate way, but the point was that they _said it_ , the words burning like acid on their tongues. “We'll fight with you until the end.”

The Land they might be, the Land given voice, but more often than not the only words they could say were the words of the people. If the people wanted to leave, who were they to deny them? The Land changed with the people, and the Land moved with the people, and the people were leaving, so the Land left with them.

“Welcome, my fellow confederates.”

****1861: South Carolina secedes from the Union, and the Civil War begins.**

 

* * *

 

“You did _what_?!”

The Thirteen looked surprisingly nonchalant about the whole matter. Washington District was dozing over by the window and didn't stir, but America could talk to her later. Georgia pushed a mug of soup into his hands. New York and Massachusetts weren't even paying attention to him, talking quietly in the corner. New Hampshire was doodling on the back of a sheet of paper he'd scarfed from America's desk – hopefully not paperwork, but it was hard to tell from this angle.

“We decided not to say anything immediately after the Revolution,” Virginia said with a shrug. “There isn't a point for that anymore, not really.”

“'Sides, last time you sent a human in your place the poor fella needed therapy,” North Carolina added.

“Understandably,” Louisiana piped up from where he was sitting on the floor on a pillow, cane in his lap. “They're very... loud.”

“Had a whole conference and everything, Pa,” Connecticut added softly. “All fifty-one of us, pulled the provinces in, too. Everyone agreed for once.”

* * *

The meeting room was loud.

Washington District and Louisiana looked at the scene before them. It was not so bad as the Congressional meetings which the States held, but there were a hundred different conversations in a hundred different languages and loud laughter and not-quite arguments. There was a pair of empty chairs near the front of the room, and so, briefcases in hand, they crossed the floor at a slow pace, Louisiana needed the extra time to move with his cane.

“Washington?”

Canada was looking at the two blankly. Louisiana waved brightly.

“Alfred is sick,” Washington District shrugged, setting her files down. “Here we are.”

“I- okay.”

****The Nations finally find out about the States when America works himself into an illness and Washington District has to go fill in for him at a meeting.**

 

* * *

 

They weren't doing much. It was a frigid day, overcast and windy, and the Continentals were either trying to start a fire or hunting for food. Rhode Island and Massachusetts had dug a hollow in a snowdrift to protect them from the worst of the wind and were huddling together. Patrick was used to the harsh winters and was faring somewhat better than his sibling, but neither of them were doing _well_.

“Hey, Rogue!” Benjamin hurried over, sending some snow skidding down onto them. “Gotta head off t'speak with the General. You too, Pat, gotta go. Bets it's another message again.”

“Bring back food!” someone that the boys couldn't see shouted. “And an ax!”

There was precisely one ax amongst the entire army. It made for quite a bit of difficulty.

Benjamin scurried off, and Massachusetts got to his feet, slinging an arm around his brother's waist. “Never mind food, we're getting you some shoes.”

Rhode Island nodded, breath puffing in the cold air. His feet were tied in scraps of cloth, the visible skin bone-white, starting to turn blue. “Please.”

The officers and, of course, General Washington, had houses to stay in, beds to sleep in, hot food to eat, but most of the army was outside in the cold, day and night. The two soldiers shuffled along through knee-deep snow; about halfway there, Massachusetts mumbled something under his breath that might have been a curse and motioned for his brother to climb onto his back. There was a brief skirmish between Rhode Island's pride and Rhode Island's sensibility, with sensibility winning in the end, and he climbed up, only getting back down when they reached the door. The two ragged boys were escorted to a room with a blazing fire and were handed two bowls of thick broth by a black man.

“Thanks, Billy Lee,” Robert remembered to say before wolfing down the dish.

“Eat, eat,” he urged. “There'll be more if you want.” He pointed to a bell on the wall. “Ring, I'll come with more.” Then he left, and the two were alone for a moment. Neither spoke, too intent on finishing the first substantial meal they had eaten in several months, so they actually missed the entrance of the General and his staff.

Massachusetts' eyes went wide at about the same time as Rhode Island's, and they sprang to attention, shoving their bowls aside.

“At ease, gentlemen,” General Washington said kindly. “Sit, eat.”

Hesitantly, they sat back down after General Washington had done the same himself. Most of the other men went to consult over a map, but a fourth man joined the group sitting, one Rhode Island did not recognize. His skin was pale, and his hair was white (though he didn't look old), and his eyes were _red_.

Patrick, reminded of Salem and nooses tied from rope, went very still.

“The Baron von Steuben has volunteered to train our army. Sir Beilschmidt, as _representative_ of the sovereign nation of Prussia, will be taking on your training in particular.” There was a light in his eye and a particular emphasis on the word 'representative.' Rhode Island had never precisely told General Washington that he was the state of Rhode Island, but he got the feeling that the man knew – and that was why he was used as a courier, far away from the front lines. This stranger was probably Prussia himself.

“Yes, sir,” he said in quick agreement.

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said an instant later.

“You will report here in the schedule given to you, and you will drill with the other men in your regiment,” General Washington told them. “Time permitting, Private Jones-” He looked at Rhode Island. “-I have another message to be delivered.” He stood to his full height. “See me when you are done.” He departed to consult with his staff, leaving Prussia to look at them with narrowed eyes.

“There are two of you,” he said, his accent thick and difficult for Rhode Island to decipher. “Why?”

_No Nation, enemy or ally, can know of you._

Massachusetts still looked uncomfortable, Puritan instincts rising up in terror at the unusual appearance of the other. Rhode Island chewed on his lip for a moment. “We're not America, sir.” Prussia's eyes narrowed further. “State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, sir, at your service.” When Massachusetts didn't add anything, Rhode Island kicked him.

“State of Massachusetts.”

For a moment, Prussia actually looked surprised. “ _Staaten_.” Then he threw back his head and laughed, a sharp hissing noise that made both boys jump, startled. “England has _no idea_! How many? _Dreizen_?”

The word was unfamiliar. “Thirteen. Sir. Thirteen, sir.” Rhode Island nodded. “And Pa.”

“ _Deine Vater?_ Eh- your father? _Amerika_?”

“Yessir,” Massachusetts finally spoke up.

“Are all of you so tiny?”

Rhode Island jutted out his chin. “Fancy empire, you are. I'm not much land, but I got this far, I did!”

Nathaniel Greene, overhearing, looked scandalized. So did Massachusetts.

Prussia just grinned with a predatory amusement. “Hang onto that fight, kid. You'll need it. What happened to your shoes?”

“Fell apart. Ate the leather.”

****Rhode Island is a snarky little child, and ran off to join the Continental Army at Massachusetts' request back when Boston was still under siege. When Massachusetts was able to, he joined.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Not chronological, mostly unrelated, but maybe some of you will enjoy them. Again, you have anything you'd like to see, let me know, I'll do what I can do around schoolwork and college applications.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of New York/Massachusetts in this one.

The Vermont house was in a state of chaos. America wasn't even there, which could have been either a very good thing or a very _bad_ thing. The States were more inclined to listen to him than they were to listen to each other, but their father was of little help when they were trying to keep things even remotely organized. To further complicate matters, most of the older States were out of the house retrieving other siblings or making their back from their own respective houses; the only ones at home were seventeen of the Midwest and East Coast, and the whole place needed to be ready for dinner tonight. They were running around frantically attempting to prepare a meal for upwards of seventy.

“How many chairs?” Vermont bellowed from the dining room. Behind him, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Ohio were struggling to drag the massive oaken table (which they had built specifically to fit all of their family at for gatherings like these) back a few feet to provide more room for _more_ tables. It was almost certain to end in disaster, for Tennessee and Ohio were on one side of the table, and Kentucky, up until a few moments ago, had been with Vermont on the other side. Now they were off-balance and starting to wobble.

Minnesota, hurrying past the stairway from the second floor leading down to the first, stopped and leaned over the banister to be heard better. “Set up seventy-five!” she shouted back. “Play the rest of the day by ear!”

A moment later, she went a little pale. “Dear God, _seventy-five_.”

Wisconsin, passing by, patted her on the shoulder and dropped a Santa hat onto her head. “Don't worry, we'll make everything work.”

From downstairs came a deafening _thud_ ; the floorboards rattled.

“Code 5!” someone cried. “Code 17!”

The two States stared at each other. Then Wisconsin vaulted over the banister and landed in the first floor hallway, pausing briefly to look up at Minnesota as he caught his balance. “Grab the aid kit!” he called up before taking off at a run. “What the hell were you doing with the table?!”

****Christmastime in Vermont. It's incredibly hectic.**

 

* * *

 

Something in the General's tone made Rhode Island pause and look up, now knowing that the dispatch from Congress was in his hand, though his fingers were still too numb to feel it. The General had set down his quill, and he wore an odd expression on his face.

“”Yes, sir?”

“You aren't wearing boots, Jones.”

Rhode Island blinked, his mind struggling to understand why that was important, until- he wasn't wearing boots. His boots were currently scraps in the bottom of his satchel to be removed and chewed on occasionally when his hunger pains got too bad to ignore. He wasn't wearing boots, and this winter was ferociously cold. “No, General, sir, I'm not,” he replied, swallowing the “ain't” that threatened to slip out. The General didn't have to worry about _him_ freezing to death, so it made sense that he should stay as a courier, but he also knew the General didn't much care for New Englanders, and he tried to keep his speech sounding even a little bit educated. “Fell apart.”

“How long ago was this?”

“...Can't remember, sir.”

The General blinked once, slowly, and then finally seemed to come back to himself, that unusual expression clearing and his tone back to normal. “Bring me the dispatch, Jones, then go stand by the fire.”

“I- _sir_?”

“You are shaking, Jones.”

“Oh.” He hadn't actually noticed that. Huh. “Uh- yes, dispatch from Congress for you, sir.”

****Valley Forge, '77-'78. Not a fun place to be. Rhode Island just keeps trooping on.**

 

* * *

 

Georgia popped her head up over the side of the couch, eyes bright, a wide smile on her face. New York was immediately nervous, wary of any of his siblings whenever they happened to approach him in such a manner.

“Hey,” she chirped.

“Hi,” he replied slowly, taking his earbuds out.

“Got a favor t'ask of you.”

“...okay.”

“So there's a Broadway show- Lou n' I were hoping t'go see it.”

New York sighed.

“...I will do my best to get you tickets to _Hamilton_ within a reasonable amount of time.”

“Have I told you lately that I love you?”

Massachusetts responded instantly from somewhere in the house, though New York wasn't entirely sure how he had overheard their conversation. “Are you flirting with my boyfriend?”

“Hell yeah!” Georgia shouted back.

New York sighed again, put his earbuds back in, and cranked up the volume.

_History is happening in Manhattan and we just happen to be in the greatest city in the world...!_

**Slice of life.**

 

* * *

 

The Polks were going on a much-needed weekend vacation, and, for some reason that neither he or Massachusetts could fathom, they had decided that the two States were the perfect candidates for babysitting.

Mrs. Polk had asked New York, and New York hadn't been able to come up with a tactful way of saying 'I have literally been yanked out of my apartment at gunpoint because people hate me and my family and having me and my husband take care of your infant child is a really shit idea' in time. New York had told Massachusetts, who had expressed a similar sentiment to New York, and then the both of them went down a floor to try and talk some sense into their neighbors.

It hadn't worked. New York and Massachusetts were still incredibly confused. The Polks were one day into their two-day trip.

Little Brianna Polk fit nicely into New York's arms. She was three months old, weighing in at exactly twelve pounds and roughly twenty-three inches. Her hair was a reddish sort of brown, and her eyes were green, and- well, New York loved each and every one of his citizens, each and every one of those bright and precious lives, but he didn't get to spend a lot of time around babies. The last babies he had held were Alaska and Hawaii, and even they, they had been more like toddlers.

“I'm taking a picture of you. Your face is priceless.”

“Hm?”

“You look like you've just seen the most beautiful thing on Earth, and to be completely honest with you, I'm a little bit insulted that you've never looked at _me_ like that.”

“Get over here and look at this beautiful, perfect child and tell me you don't feel the same way as I do.”

“...Okay, fair enough.” Massachusetts sat down on the sofa next to him. Brianna grabbed at the bright blue of his hoodie, drawing a laugh from the both of them. “God, she's adorable.”

“Yeah.”

New York watched her hand curl around his finger, not particularly concerned when she decided they would make a good snack and tried to chew on them.

“Hey, Pat?”

“Mm?”

Best to just get the words out there, really. If he waffled over them, he'd screw them up.

“You ever wish we could have kids? Little baby Joneses?”

There was a long, long pause. He let Massachusetts take his time answering.

“Normal kids, Steven? If we could live normal lives and have normal kids? Or- be like we are now, and have kids who'd be like us?”

There was a third option there, New York supposed, be like they are now and have a child like this one, but that possibility simply opened up heartbreak, and he didn't want to dwell on it. He didn't know which option he'd been thinking of when he asked the question, but the idea of being able to live life with his husband in a little house with a fence and a green lawn and trees for shade and a couple of kids running through the yard slipped into his mind and latched on.

“Dunno, Pat. Can't say I'd want to deliberately bring a kid into this world and put them through what we've lived. Just... never mind how it would work or if it would work. You ever wish we could have kids?”

Brianna Polk yawned, her face scrunching up, and something twisted deep in his chest.

“Yeah, I- yeah. I'd love to have kids with you. Raise 'em in a house all our own, have big family dinners at the table- hell, bring 'em to the family dinners up in Vermont and let them be spoiled rotten. They'd get dragged into the Dakotas' pranks and go running amok with Alaska and Hawaii.”

“They'd be a Yankees fan.”

“They most certainly would _not_. I won't have you corrupting our non-existent children.”

He laughed, and if it was a little watery, neither of them were going to mention it.

****Part of that AU in which people find out about the Nations and everything goes to shit, continued.**

 

* * *

 

Virginia opened the door of her house and blinked once in surprise.

“ _Abigail_? What brings you here?”

The capital seemed uncharacteristically hesitant, unusually restless, though that could relate in part to the fact that it was pouring rain. Virginia quickly opened the door further and stepped back to let her in; Washington District stepped in gratefully, shrugging out of her pea coat and hanging it up on the coat rack.

****Part of Washington District deciding to stand with the picketers for women's suffrage that I never finished typing. Historical Hetalia.**

 

* * *

 

“College, _again_?”

“I'm _bored_ , Pat. And I've got enough spare time on my hands, I might as well do something with it.” New York shrugged and flopped back onto his couch. “Sides, I've always wanted a degree in physics.”

“You should take Jacob with you.”

“He'd blow up the dorms. Abby would murder me.”

“That was _one time_!” came New Hampshire's distant shout. How he had heard their conversation, neither State was entirely sure.

“One time too many!” Massachusetts bellowed back.

“You weren't complaining at Yorktown!”

“Pipe _down_ , New England!” came another voice- Virginia, probably.

“Don't tread on- _ow_!”

****Slice of life.**

 

* * *

 

New York's hand was shaking, so the fine print of the news article wasn't legible, but neither of them cared about anything but the headline. Massachusetts ignored his fingers steadily going numb from the weight of the bags he was carrying.

_**SCOTUS rules 5-4 in favor of same-sex marriage** _

“Holy shit, they actually did it.” New York laughed, a bit shaky, a bit overwhelmed. “Oh my God. Pat. _Pat._ ”

“I see it,” he replied. His own voice sounded distant. “Remember when sodomy was a crime?”

“We talking two hundred years ago or fifty?”

“Both. Either.”

“Oh my God.”

“I _know_.”

“H- Hey. Hey, Pat.”

“Yeah?”

“So- I know we've had this conversation before, and I was hoping to have it again at a time when I wasn't buried in groceries, but would you like to spend the rest of our lives together?”

The words blurred a bit on the screen. Massachusetts blinked a few times. “Yes, you dork. Now help me get the damn groceries away so I can kiss you properly, and then we'll round up a couple witnesses for the registry.”

****I love these two.**


	3. Chapter 3

He'd written home to his siblings and his father just the other day, having saved up money for a week to buy stamps. The letter was pleasant, and he'd taken great care not to get it dirty so they wouldn't think he was in trouble.

 _Dear Pa,_ it had read. _I'm well! The house I was staying in was foreclosed because of the economy and things, but that's all right. I've got myself a nice new home. It's a bit drafty and the ceiling leaks when it rains, but I like it!_

He'd built himself a nice little lean-to up against one of the trees in Seattle's Hooverville. It got incredibly hot and stuffy during the day, at least in the summer, so it was always warm and cozy when he first went in to sleep, but it got cold overnight. When it rained (and it rained a lot in the state of Washington) or got a little bit breezy, his nice little lean-to became a damp and wet shack that only sort of helped.

_I know you want me to come home, but I have to stick around and help my people. They're all working real hard, I bet they could make enough money for the whole country to get by! They're pretty great like that, you know. Maybe not “civilized” like out East (I'm looking at you thirteen) but they know how to get a job done._

Families were working twelve-hour shifts, men and women and children alike, and barely scraping enough to get by. Washington had been working, too, but the paper he'd been selling had gone out of print. He didn't have enough money to pay for passage back to their home in Vermont, and he couldn't bring himself to ask for more. His father _could_ pay his way back, but from what he'd heard, Pa wasn't doing well and the government would be peeved if they had to do it.

_I've made some nice friends, but that's not really the important thing. Rowing season starts up soon, Pa! University of Washington is going to be picking the freshman crew, and I think I might be able to watch. Don't worry, I haven't sneaked onto the campus or talked to any of the staff, but there's a little place off of the lakeside where I can see them work. I think it's gonna be a good year for rowing, Pa. We'll kick Cal's butt from here to Sunday!_

_...Actually, ignore that last part. Shouldn't have said that to you, I know you don't like playing favorites. I still think we're gonna win, though, I can feel it!_

_I'll come home once things have settled down here, though I don't know when that'll happen. And I'll keep writing to all of you. Please write back – I miss you all lots._

_Until next time! Your son,_

_George_

****There's a book called _The Boys in the Boat_ about the United States rowing team during the 1936 Olympics, a bunch of college kids from the University of Washington who beat all the odds stacked against them to win gold. It's an incredible story (I've read it three times through), and I had a few partial ideas about it and Washington state, but never got very far. **

 

* * *

  

 _Hello, George_ , his father's latest letter had read.

Washington had been adding to his house in Seattle's Hooverville over the past several months. It had rained and snowed a terrible amount during the winter, so he had started scavenging for things to build it up, and then even once it stopped raining he just kept building. He now had a roof that didn't leak, a second chair for his rickety table, and more blankets for the bed in the corner.

The letters he had been sending to home were frequent; the replies were significantly less frequent. More of the States had moved out to try and lessen the strain on their father, but it was hard to tell what was hurting America more: the economy or his children leaving. The Vermont house where they all lived had been built shortly after the Civil War, an unspoken statement that they were a family and they stuck together no matter what. It was emptying out very quickly. It made Washington want to come home, but he had no money to do so. He couldn't bring himself to admit to his father that he was trapped penniless on the other side of the continent.

_I am glad to hear that you're doing well. It's reassuring to know you have a roof over your head. Massachusetts and New York left within a week of each other, and in their last letter they said they're both in the Hooverville in Manhattan._

That had made Washington feel even worse than before.

_I sent them some money, but the government hasn't been very pleased with the expenses coming from our house. I try to explain to them that I have to pay for more than thirty children, but most aren't very inclined to listen. I don't want to bother the President about it either. Roosevelt is a good man, and I think he'll be good for this country if he comes through on his promises, but he's under enough pressure from everyone else. The country needs jobs, we need a stable economy..._

_You don't need to hear about that, though._

_Rowing season! The race against California is in April, right? I don't think I'll be able to make it, but know I'm rooting for you both in equal measure. While I'm sure I'll get a blow-by-blow recount of everything from your sister, tell me about it when you get the chance to write again._

_Your siblings, the ones that are still here, they're all doing well. They send their hellos and hope you're doing all right. Oliver and Ida want to know if you'll be able to make it home for the Fourth of July. I understand you couldn't get home in time for Christmas, but the Fourth promises to be amazing. Jacob has developed a slightly disconcerting interest in explosives, and he says that he'll be making fireworks that we can shoot off in the backyard. Imagine that! We've come from candles and quill pens to being able to create decorative explosions. Decorative!_

_It baffles me sometimes, all this innovation, but I feel like it's what this country was born to do. We're a city on a hill, George, always keep that in mind._

_I wish your boys the best of luck, and I hope they make you proud. Write back when you can, letters always bring smiles to the house._

_**Alfred F. Jones** _

There was an obvious lack of discussion on how America himself was doing, Washington noted as he picked his way through the woods to where he had moored his little raft. Today was the race between Washington State University and the University of California at Berkeley – there was no way he'd be able to pay for a train ticket to watch, but he had plans to paddle out and wait with the small ships lining the water.

But then again, that was just how his father was. He absolutely refused to succumb to what he was feeling unless he was forced to or he finally passed out.

****See above.**

 

* * *

  

Tennessee woke up to hear Virginia arguing with- someone? Didn't know. Hurt too much to focus.

“I _know_ we need soldiers, but he's dead on his feet! Two bullets, _goddammit_ man, you sendin' corpses out to fight your battles, now?”

“Corporal Jones-”

“ _Lieutenant_.”

“Lieutenant Jones, I understand you've been worried about your brother, but he has been healing remarkably well-”

“I don't _fuckin_ _'_ care! He's goin' _back_ , back to Richmond!”

Richmond wasn't home to him, not that he'd ever say it aloud, not while the war still raged.

The bed was warm. He was uncomfortably cold- frigid, the world was blurred, but he had enough presence of mind to think that he would rather keep his agonized body stuck in this bed or collapsed on a battlefield than endure a rattling train ride back to Richmond, where Alexander was waiting. Alexander would just send him back again.

Tennessee woke up to hear Virginia pacing the cramped confines of the medical tent.

“...hh.”

She spun around. Her arm was in a sling. Her uniform was tattered and bloodied and covered in dirt. Her face was little better. “Thank _God_.”

“...w?”

His throat was dry, clogged. Virginia managed to take the top off her canteen off one-handed and poured a trickle of water into his mouth. It was gone too quickly.

“You're goin' back home,” she told him softly. Time spent on the battlefield had roughened her accent, turned it into a coarse drawl that the Confederate foot soldiers all seemed to have. He could remember when she spoke just as eloquently as Lincoln. “Takin' a train. I've written back. Carol an' Caroline've both gone further south, but someone'll be by to get you.”

“...You?”

Her lips thinned. “Aide t'the General.”

“......Pat?”

“Not here.” She looked sharply at him, blue-gray eyes narrowed. “Don't you go mentioning him now, y'hear? I want you _home_. Look after Belle. Look after Lou. Don't go shootin' Alexander.”

He coughed instead of laughing.

Tennessee woke up to a medic telling him it was time to leave. He was going back.

...Tennessee had made it north once before, and that had been with a child in tow. Surely he could do it again alone.

\- - -

“We aren't leaving without Belle!”

Texas crossed his arms and looked down at Louisiana, who frowned back. Arkansas and Florida were sleeping softly on a mattress pushed next to the one Georgia lay on, her form still, much as all the rest of the house was asleep. Their conversation was conducted entirely in whispers.

“War's not over,” Louisiana snapped. “Alexander won't let us go.”

“Alexander is either delirious or drunk or asleep! We don't need to worry about him anymore.”

“We _always_ need to worry about him, Austin!” Louisiana shrank back a bit, rocking where he sat. “Won't be difficult for him to find us, send out the dogs, put out reports of runaways with blue eyes. And when he's drunk, he beats us; when he's in one of his fits he tries to _shoot_ us-” He trailed off into angrily muttered Creole as Texas made an exasperated noise.

“I'm getting out of here while I still have the chance, okay? And I can't bring Belle, and I'm sorry. Mississippi and Alabama already said they'd come with me.”

“Fine. But I stay.”

****The Civil War is complicated in this 'verse. The States that made up the CSA had to go south for the war because it was still their land seceding, their people, regardless of personal opinion; additionally, they'd met Alexander not long before, who represented the Confederacy the same way Alfred represents the Union. At the beginning of the war, they all live under the same roof, and Alexander is more or less stable, but as the war continues on, his mental state starts to slip, mirroring the condition of his country. He is cruel to the States who aren't white and does his best to keep them all captive in the house. Tennessee brings West Virginia north when his state breaks away from Virginia proper, and Alexander makes sure he is drafted into the Army of Northern Virginia as a result; the same thing happens to Virginia, though she gets drafted under the name of Eli Jones. Tennessee manages to flee across the Potomac to stay with Washington District, and Texas escapes the house with some of the States, but Virginia is there until the war ends at Appomattox Courthouse. Alexander flies into a rage during the Burning of Richmond just days before the war ends, which is when Georgia shoots him and flees the house with the rest of her siblings. Because of the unstable state of the Confederacy as a whole and the war's end shortly after, this death is permanent, and the personification ceases to exist.**

 

* * *

  

“I'm heading out. The government is giving me a migraine, so I'm going to go try and shake some sense into them.” Washington District's tone was the typical bland one she used when talking on any official or formal matter so she could avoid sounding biased, and her outfit was as put together as always, but her expression was tired, and her hair was in a low ponytail instead of neatly braided back. “Have fun on your date.”

Louisiana, pacing rather nervously, came to an abrupt halt. “Thanks?”

“Don't look so surprised. The government knows everything, remember?”

“That isn't very reassuring, Abby.”

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“Well _that_ isn't-”

“Stop pacing. You'll make your leg hurt more.”

Louisiana sighed and took a slow breath. “Yeah. Thanks, Abby. See you later?”

The capital hummed in thought for a moment. “Either they won't listen to me and I come back, or they won't listen to me and I yell at them for a while, so... possibly.”

“Good luck, then.”

Her lips quirked in what might have been a smile. “Thanks.”

****Who am I shipping Louisiana with? No one knows. _I_ don't even know.**

 

* * *

 

_April, 1801_

“They don't like me.”

Georgia startled and turned quickly. She generally noticed when people approached her- and for a moment, she didn't even recognize the _voice_ \- but it was only the newest occupant of their house, the little red-haired, rosy-cheeked girl with their father's eyes.

Something must have shifted in her expression, given her away. The little girl's face crumpled in dejection.

“ _You_ don't like me, either.”

New York City was still serving as the capital, so Pa had taken the family and moved them there from Philadelphia some several years ago. However, the family- or rather, _Pa_ , who intended to take the rest of the family with him- was planning another move to the newly-established capital of Washington, District of Columbia. It was the stronghold of the federal government and midway between the northern and southern states, making trips home for the Carolinas or Virginia much easier.

So their father said.

But Georgia could feel the growing concerns of the people, _her_ people, some concerns valid and others not so much. Virginia's legislature had ceded land for the capital's creation along with Maryland's, but Virginia herself was leery of the personification. The point was for the capital to house the government in an area not claimed by any state, but that there was a personification so _soon_... Georgia assumed Washington District would become her father's heart, like Boston was Massachusetts', like Philadelphia was Pennsylvania's. But that a piece of land meant to hold the government was represented like the rest of them- they had fought to get _away_ from oppressive government, and theirs had the potential to become so powerful that it warranted its own representation.

No, the federal government was something she felt they had valid reason to be wary of, but this child hadn't done anything. Georgia knew you couldn't help what you were.

She had been outside tending to the garden. It was always quieter outside, and she preferred that to being cooped up with the rest of the South. She backed away from the flowers and sat on the ground, patting the spot next to her. “C'mere, love.”

The capital still looked upset, but she sat- reluctantly, but she sat. Pa had found her a few months ago. She was so _small_ , maybe two or three in the equivalent of human years? And she was convinced the people supposed to be her family didn't like her.

“Nobody hates you here,” she said firmly.

The capital shook her head stubbornly. “Yes, they _do_.”

“Well, _I_ certainly like you!”

Washington District's expression was that stubborn sort of look only children could pull off. Georgia thought for a moment.

“You gon' call me a liar to my face?”

The capital shook her head very quickly.

“Then, that's settled! I think you're a fine young girl, Washington, and I don't want you lettin' nobody tell you otherwise.”

Washington District nodded a couple times, and it seemed the matter really was settled. She didn't say anything else, but Georgia was loathe to break the peaceful moment, and the two of them sat in silence, watching bumblebees drone lazily about the flower garden.

“I wanna be called Abigail, stead of Wash'ton. Like Mass- Massaset's- _Patrick's_ Abigail.”

Georgia needed a moment to think. Massachusetts' Abigail...? “You mean Mrs. Adams?”

She brightened and nodded happily. “Yes!”

“How come? Lovely name, I's just curious.”

“'Cause she wanted women to do things- an' I heard Masses- Maschuset- _Patrick_ talking about her, and he said she's smart and pretty, and I'm going to be smart and pretty!”

That sounded a lot like Patrick. He _was_ New England's revolutionary. Georgia smiled, reached out hesitantly to put her hand on the child's back. She didn't shy away. “You'll grow up t'be the smartest and the prettiest, love.”

“Uh-huh!”

No hesitations, no doubts. She had to smile again- if the government was represented by a strong thinker and a woman, maybe things weren't all so bad.

****Smol Washington District is smol.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having a really sucky week, so literally any comments would be very very much appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

_Monmouth; June 26, 1780_

It was _hot_.

Prussia surveyed the disheveled group in front of him, too damned sweaty to bring him his usual annoyance at their sheer lack of respect; Rhode Island, he was used to, damn brat, and Massachusetts to some extent, but the rest of them were unfamiliar. And _girls_. Disguised as boys, rather like Erzebet when they had been kids.

“You'd think Liz would be here,” said one of them, blonde hair chopped short around her ears.

“Liz'd need to cut her locks,” drawled one of them-- Maryland? Hell if he knew. One of the girls; she was the furthest south of the group here, the only one of them unaffected by the heat. “Like hell she'd be here.”

“Yeah, but she can _shoot_ ,” Pennsylvania (???) pointed out. “And Robert there's the same size as his gun.”

“Leave... leave off,” New Hampshire stuttered out, but he was grinning as Rhode Island raised his bayonet threateningly, only for New York to snag the back of his collar to keep him from moving forward. “Little brother's... sensitive 'bout that.”

“I will fight you _both_.”

“Save the fighting for the Redcoats,” Delaware laughed.

“...I have been here for _ten minutes_ , and none of you have bothered to stand for attention,” Prussia finally pointed out, still staring at the nine of them, either lounging about talking or lying collapsed on the ground, also talking.

“Too hot,” Massachusetts said, eyes closed. “I miss my goddamned oceans.”

“ _Language_ , Pat-- aren't you Puritan?”

“Eh.”

“The Massachusetts Bay Colony is gonna descend from the heavens and slap you for that.”

“ _That's_ blasphemy.”

 ****Rev. War -- once they're able to, Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Maryland, New York, and all of New England join the Continentals to fight** **.**

 

* * *

 

They began to trickle in, one by one or in pairs or small groups; the Nations who had been present in Baton Rouge remained somewhat baffled by the sheer _number_ of them. Europe couldn't have missed so many, they couldn't have!

Right?

Louisiana was permanently flanked by Georgia, with America himself and Washington District (a _capital_ personified, how--?) not far away even as they took the bulk of the conversation and questions onto themselves, but a small cluster was forming steadily around them, all with a distinct drawl to their words. There were a pair of children laughing and playing in a language none of them could understand; when asked, America only shrugged.

“They've got this pidgin of three different Native Alaskan dialects, native Hawaiian, Russian, and English. And no, I can't translate.”

<stuff>

The door open again; a couple walked through side by side, dressed in business suits much the same as everyone else, but their visible skin was coated in glitter. It sparkled on their hands, their faces (though it looked as if they'd tried to wash some of it off), even their _hair_.

America glanced up, blinked once, and sighed.

“Look,” said one of them, spreading sparkly hands in a defensive gesture, “you were all, _hey, come to this thing, it's even in your city_ , and we said that we had another thing immediately before it and we might need to show up late because we had to stop at home en route, and _then_ Abby called and insisted we had to come straight here.”

“Straight,” Washington District repeated flatly. A young woman who had identified herself as Virginia choked on a swallow of water.

The first speaker grinned and shot finger guns at the capital, who only raised an eyebrow; the second of the pair took over speaking. “The thing was Pride, which was fabulous as always, and then we went back home real quick anyway, because, y'know...”

“We needed clothes,” the first one supplied when the second trailed off. The second one put his glitter-covered face into glitter-covered hands.

“Steven.”

“Yes, Pat?”

“I hate you."

“We've been in a relationship since the thirties, and _now_ you tell me this?”

****Undiscovered country AU, the Nations meet the States.**

 

* * *

 

It felt like the world was falling apart. New York couldn't breathe in the stifling summer heat and crawled out his bedroom window onto the roof, stopping just briefly before he left to dig around in his bedside drawer. The air outside was only marginally cooler, no less humid, but it felt good against his skin all the same. Hands only shaking a little bit, he fumbled with the matches in the moonlight and lit the cigarette between his lips.

The smoke filled his lungs, and he could feel himself start to relax, even as his conscience (which sounded suspiciously like Washington District) berated him for being an idiot. Too bad. He was a State, so it wasn't like he was going to die of cancer.

****Probably that one where people find out about the Nations and everything goes to shit, but I don't actually remember what this was or the context it came from.**

 

* * *

 

“I mean, so long as he gets here on time...” Louisiana shrugged. “Dunno what we're gonna do with the food otherwise. Eat it, suppose?”

\- -

America was stuck in traffic.

Not only was he stuck in traffic, he was stuck in a _blizzard_ in traffic.

Ugh.

There was very little visibility, and he was having trouble seeing the tail lights of the car a few feet in from of him. He'd pull over, but there was no gap in the lanes that he could see. He'd _step_ , but it wasn't like he could bring the car _with_ him. He'd need to leave it behind. More traffic, someone would probably crash because of it, headlines reading _U.S. GOVT CAR FOUND EMPTY ON HIGHWAY_ and inevitable conspiracy theories.

Bad idea.

At least the car was warm. His phone had battery.

“Hey, Carls? What's the weather reports look like on the east coast?”

\- -

“Papa is going to be late,” Florida announced. Louisiana sighed and returned to the kitchen.

“Blizzard?” Washington asked.

“Yeah.”

“Forget to step?” Washington District asked.

“Yeah.”

“Pa's an idiot,” Virginia sighed. No one could really disagree with her assessment. “Keep decorating. It'll be a late dinner, that's all.”

\- -

Elsewhere in the house, Alaska and Hawaii had locked themselves in her room with a bunch of tape, wrapping paper, and four Malamutes.

“Papa's gonna be late,” Hawaii told her.

“No he won't.”

They had lots of presents to wrap. Seed packets, little wooden carvings, handmade plushes with loose seams and lopsided smiles – and having the dexterity of a six-year-old was difficult for crafts, so their work took them a long time.

Hawaii gave his older sister a funny look. “He's stuck in a blizzard further south. Liz _said_ so.”

“ _Da._ ” Alaska seemed remarkably unconcerned and almost flippantly spoke her next words, waving one hand in the air dismissively, translucent and frost-covered chains trailing from her wrist. “I talked to Grandfather. He said he could take care of it.”

Hawaii cringed. He hated Winter.

“Hold the paper while I cut it?”

“...Okay.”

\- -

“Blizzard cleared up mysteriously.” Florida looked very confused, even as she relayed the information to her siblings. “Papa will maybe be an hour late.”

“Move up the cooking schedule, Lou!” Georgia shouted to the kitchen. In response, she got an irritated string of French.

Massachusetts rubbed absently at his wrists, glancing periodically up to the ceiling. New York looked down at his hands, then up at the ceiling, then back down again.

“Aria do a thing?”

“...Think so.”

“I'll get you some blankets and cocoa.”

“Please.”

****Christmas shenanigans. Alaska knows General Winter, to the distress of everybody else. I headcanon Nations can kind of teleport from one place to another so long as it's on home soil - technically, they can bring others with them, but that takes even more effort than just bringing themselves.**

 

* * *

 

The further south he had traveled, the more he saw, the more apparent the war became; it was one thing for Canada to read about it in the papers, in his brother's shaking penmanship and too-scarce letters, to see the photographs taken of the battlefield in the aftermath – but it was another entirely to look at the scarred land, at his brother's wan and gaunt face, the trembling of his hands.

And yet, after the first round of diplomatic pleasantries, his brother approached with a smile, tired but true, and pulled him into a fragile hug. “It's good to see you,” America said.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately, knowing it was a pointless question with an obvious answer, but needing to ask regardless. “Not you as a Nation-- you as _you_ , Alfred. War is...”

He'd never been through one. He didn't know. But he'd seen the aftermath in France, in England-- in _Francis_ , in _Arthur_.

“Canada.” America sighed, a quiet, gentle thing. For all it had annoyed him when they were children, Canada felt he would give anything to see something of the brash, boisterous youth he had grown up with. “Mattie. Me as me? Better than me as...” Another sigh, a pause, a weary gesture all about them. The room where they stood was filled with white politicians; across the Potomac, the land of Virginia was battle-scarred, and what remained of the south beyond it. “But, uh-- that's actually what I wanted to talk with you about. Come have dinner with us tonight, Matthew. I've a house in the capital. Family dinner, no politics, no strings attached.”

The use of _Matthew_ more than once did not go unnoticed. Nations could hardly afford to get attached to one another, not with politics and war and the world doing its best to rip itself apart every century or two-- and yet, they were the only ones of their kind. There was no one else with shared experiences, no one else who understood. No one else they _could_ get attached to.

His ambassadors wanted to meet and discuss what was covered this evening, he knew, but his brother's eyes were bright and kind-- tired, yes, but still so very familiar. Canada smiled. “I'd like that.”

\- -

“So you know-- this country-- the United States, this place, it was a number of individual territories, even after England took over, but I was the only personification that he ever found.”

They walked through the muddied streets of the capital. Everything was gray, dreary; it was growing late, and getting dark. At least the sky was clear tonight, though it had rained for a time earlier on. The only true color Canada could find was the blond of his brother's hair and the blue of his eyes, and even those seemed diminished.

“Yes?” Canada said hesitantly, after a pause. Most of their trip to America's house had been spent in silence; his brother's statement had come from nowhere.

He had a feeling that he knew where the conversation was going, however, even as America opened his mouth to continue.

“He didn't find them because I found them first.”

****Family in the aftermath of civil war.**

 

* * *

 

Delaware, like many of her siblings, didn't see the point in having to pick _another_ name for herself. She already had a name! But Papa insisted; he was the Land, he was _America_ , but they couldn't just call him that in front of other people, because their Kind needed to stay a secret. So he was also Alfred Jones.

The little girl squinted up at her father, who was looking rather upset. She frowned. She didn't _want_ to make him upset, and it wasn't that having another name was a _bad_ thing. She just didn't see the point. She was Delaware.

But if picking a name would make her father happy?

“Delaney,” she said, finally, because it was close to her state name, even if it wasn't a very _common_ name. Papa blinked, startled. “Delaney Jones.”

“...It should probably be Kirkland,” he started to say, but one of her brothers across the room snorted loudly. She glanced over; Massachusetts, or _Patrick_. He was a very loud boy, all coarse and rough like most of New England. Delaware wasn't sure if she liked him yet.

“None've us have ever even _met_ old England,” he said. “ _You're_ Papa, not him.”

Papa's lips pressed together in a thin line. “You're British colonies--”

“So are _you_ ,” pointed out Maine, _Mason_ , who was very much like her older brother. Delaware wasn't sure if she like her, yet, either.

Papa didn't seem to have an answer to that, so she became Delaware who was also _Delaney_ , and every single one of them became a _Jones_.

****Names are important.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All one thing, this time, with an explanation about as long as the actual piece at the end.

They didn't hear the shot-- no, but they felt it. Felt sharp pain in the back of their necks, exploding behind their eyes. Virginia dropped a tray with a cry, ceramic teapot and cups shattering on the floor; South Carolina collapsed at the foot of the stairs, and North Carolina rolled over and vomited onto the floor from the side of her bed. Others still woke in a cold sweat, unsure what was nightmare and what was real. And those of them fighting had been asleep at the camps while the last of the British forces were driven out of Yorktown, only to awake in a shared panic, staggering to their feet, running, desperate, finding each other with blurred vision in the dark and the rain, all asking the same questions and receiving no answers.

_What happened?_

_Where's Papa?_

And desperate, running, fumbling footsteps, they continued through the dark until a grim-faced officer found them, blood on his hands, spattered on his uniform, though they could not see it in the dark, just the flickering shape of his face in the lamplight he held.

“What happened?” demanded Massachusetts.

“Where's Papa?” Rhode Island followed at his right, leaning on New Hampshire, who had one hand in Massachusetts' and another 'round Rhode Island's back gripping New Jersey's sleeve; New Jersey clung to the arm of Connecticut, who held up New York.

Prussia said nothing and motioned for them to follow, so follow they did.

* * *

“Nations have these... transitory periods,” he said. “Times when injuries or-- when injuries can be more... permanent. During upheaval, or war, when things aren't sure, aren't stable.”

“Injuries or _what_?” Connecticut stared at him. His expression did not change that they could see, through the blur of the dark and the flickering of the lantern.

“Injuries or death.”

* * *

“We found England,” he said, “when we were forcing the troops out. Alone, on the battlefield.”

Massachusetts snarled, and Rhode Island could feel a bayonet ripping through the flesh of his leg like it was happening now and not years and years ago, and New York remembered his ports slowly filling in with the enemy fleet. Ten thousand troops. Fifteen. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty-two thousand in the harbor.

“Where's Papa?” New Hampshire asked.

* * *

“There was a shot,” he said. “Probably an accident. Won't ever know.”

“ _Where's Papa?”_ New Jersey repeated, but they were at a medical tent, and Prussia was pointing the six of them inside.

They were not alone there.

General Washington had been called for. Prussia followed them in, letting the tent flap fall shut and fastening it to keep out the wind, setting the lantern down. There was a tired doctor, bloodied as much as any soldier after a battle-- too much blood on his clothes, on his hands, none of it his own.

“What--?” Rhode Island said, already straightening in the presence of Washington, but Connecticut let out a low, low moan; it was New York's turn to hold her upright, to keep her from falling, no matter how close to it he looked himself. Massachusetts wobbled unsteadily; New Jersey turned and left the tent, and over the downpour of rain they could hear the sound of retching. New Hampshire alone sank down at their father's side-- blood staining the pillow, his neck, his face, bandages wrapped around it all already starting to soak through. Took their father's hand, limp and cold, and held it between his own as if to warm it. Watched the faint rise and fall of their father's chest with rapt attention as though to confirm it was really there.

“Could.” Struggling with words even at the best of times, his lips worked soundlessly for several moments. “Could. Explain? Transi... transi-sitory. Periods?”

Prussia nodded, and continued to speak.

* * *

****Inspired by a fic called “Blindsided” by PhantomMemories over on FFnet, which has sadly been discontinued so far as I can tell. It verges more into shipping territory than I'd like with this 'verse, but the premise is that America is shot by one of England's soldiers and, because of his in-between status as territory and Nation, survives a wound which should have killed him but is permanently blinded. Canada is _pissed_ and helps his brother a lot, despite remaining a part of the British Empire; between this and America's isolationist policies, America as a personification doesn't show up on the world stage until the WWI/WWII era. It also goes a bit AU historically in a number of ways I wish I got to see explored more, but alas.**

**In _this_ AU, should it ever be continued, the States have Canada's role. They're mad as hell at England, who fired the shot instead of one of his soldiers, and as protective of their father as he is of them at times. The Burning of Washington in 1814 only serves to solidify their anger into hatred, and they quickly disband their revolution-era policy of not telling foreign countries of their existence as personifications; it's always one of the Thirteen who represents the country at meetings and diplomatic functions while America is “sadly away on other business.” Similarly, no one knows (beyond Prussia, who doesn't tell anyone as it doesn't tactically benefit him, and he's legitimately wary of the power the States hold regardless of the fact that they represent something “lesser” than a Nation; and Canada, who finds out later on) that America is blind until WWII, when Washington District goes overseas to meet with other Nations.**

**Needless to say, England is horrified when he finds out, but doesn't know how to apologize when America comes overseas as well to join the capital. America forgave him ages ago, but doesn't really approach others unless they approach him first; part of Washington District is still that frightened child whose city was occupied and set on fire, but she's good at reading people, and she can see that he's horrified. Even if his actions were intentional, he regrets their outcome. It makes her more likely to listen to him, unlike most of their family.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blindsided AU, continued, because that's where my muse has decided to stay for the past few months.

America smiled gently at her, standing in the doorway of her office like she had never left home, like they were both still working in tandem in the halls of the White House-- and truth be told, she hadn’t realized how much she had missed that, missed someone speaking _with_ her instead of _at_ her or, worse, _above_ her, like she wasn’t even there. A faint noise escaped her, and she was horrified to realize that she was crying.

Washington District stepped around to the front of her desk, crossed the room, and pressed her face into his shoulder without saying a word. She heard him make a startled kind of sound, and then he sighed, long and slow, letting the cane drop from his hand to the floor in order to hold her to his chest like she was small again, one arm around her shoulders and the other hand cradling the back of her head. His thumb rubbed small circles against her scalp. She was shaking.

“Abby,” he said softly.

For a moment, and just for a moment, she nearly pulled away-- she didn’t _want_ that tone, didn’t want the condescension, didn’t want to have to triple-check every word that came out of her mouth for being too emotionally charged or too vague, so that someone would make the assumption she didn’t know what she was talking about--- but no. No, this was only her father. There was never any condescension, not from him. Certainly not any pity.

“Tell me about my capital,” she whispered, voice muffled by the fabric of his suit jacket. “Tell me about my city. Please, Papa.”

He sighed again, a sadder kind of noise, now, and she felt him shift a little. He didn’t let go of her.

“Clara?” he called. The footsteps of her secretary approached, prompt as ever. Washington District could hear the aborted fragment of whatever she was about to say freezing on her lips. “Close the door, please, and tell anyone who comes by that Ms. Jones isn’t available.”

“Oh, um-- yes, sir, o-of course.”

The door had hardly shut before her father was talking again, and the capital just closed her eyes and let his words fade into white noise as she did her best to quell the shame she felt heating her face. She wasn’t a _child_ , she wasn’t just some _girl_ playing at politics-- she was here with the sanctions of her government, and yet she had needed to prove herself over and over and over again-- and yet here she was acting like---

America talked about the weather, and the Christmases and birthdays and Fourth of Julys she had missed. How Virginia and Maryland, both juggling the work she would normally take on in the capital, had quite seriously spoken to President Roosevelt about getting her some kind of award for managing to even keep up with it. The politicians who had come and gone, and the laws that they had passed, and how their people seemed to be doing. Ailani keeping watch over the Hawaiian Islands with the territory in her care; Alaskan winters wreaking havoc on everyone trying to wage a campaign in the Aleutians, and her youngest sister dancing in and out of military bases as she pleased with her dogs trailing in her wake. The newest construction project up at their family home. New Hampshire’s fireworks. Washington state, still writing letters home about the gold medal his boys had won at the last Olympics, nearly a decade ago.

He talked until she could remember how to breathe again, though she let herself stay in the hug for a few moments longer. And then she stepped back, flushing as she saw the damp stain left on his jacket. He kept one hand on her shoulder and fished out a handkerchief with the other.

“…I’m sorry,” she said, wiping the worst of the mess from her face, blowing her nose. Her voice was hoarse. America frowned at her-- or, frowned slightly over her shoulder. She had never known a time when he could see, and he always spoke to someone with his head slightly tilted away from their face, the better to hear them. His hands drifted up to cup her face, wiping away some of the dampness from her cheeks.

“No,” he answered.

“…What?”

“Abigail-- Abby.” He paused a moment, as though to gather his words. “You’re one of-- you _are_ the smartest, most capable young woman I know, the rest of our family included.” She couldn’t hold back the quiet sob that broke out. “And somewhere along the way, I let you think that to keep up with it all, you could never give yourself a break, or let yourself believe that it was okay _to_ break.”

She made a sound that was supposed to be a laugh, disbelieving. It didn’t much sound like one. “I just spent-- God only knows, how long I just spent-- crying into your shoulder. And you? Feel bad?”

“I’m your father,” he said gently, “of course I feel bad when one of my children starts crying.”

“That’s-- not. Not what I meant.”

“It’s what _I_ meant.” He shook his head a little. “When someone else-- not fails, not messes up, that’s not… When someone else, that you feel responsible for, is hurting, or struggling. One of your people. And you feel responsible for _that_ , too-- that’s this, just more personal. I helped raise you.”

“I _know_ it’s okay to-- to break,” she said, shaking her head though she knew he couldn’t see it, except she felt the words go reluctantly and she knew that she was lying. So much of what she did was discern when people were lying; she couldn’t lie to herself. And America… well, he always knew when one of them tried lying to his face. “Just-- I’m. Alfred, Papa, I’m-- our capital, and. I can’t. Not where people can see it, I-- I _can’t_.”

She was crying a little again. She hated it.

 _Not where people can see it_.

“Never mind people. Never mind everyone else.” He squeezed her shoulders tightly. “Just-- ignore them, because they aren’t important. Not in this.”

“And-- you’d know?”

“One hundred and sixty-three years of practice.” His lips quirked in a slight smile, though there wasn’t much humor in it. Washington District looked at the scar tissue across his face, the milk-white film over what was once a sky-blue gaze. They all had his eyes, every one of them, so the older States said.

America had always understood her, where the rest of her family tried their damnedest to keep them both safe, to the point of coddling.

“I’m-- very glad you’re here, Alfred. I’ve… missed, being around everyone.”

“We’ve missed you too, Abby.” Some warmth crept into his expression. “Every day. Now.” He tweaked her nose before she could blink, and it was enough to startle a faint laugh out of her. “Get yourself cleaned up, if you need to, get all your work put away. We’ll get dinner, wherever you want. Tour the city. Sit up too late catching up on everything in the past couple years. No more politics today, you understand?”

“…As long as there’s cake,” she said at last, and blew her nose again. She felt wobbly, but having America, _here…_ and if her father was here, that meant a least one or two of the States had to be here as well, and for all that they could be overbearing, and for all that they argued with one another and with her… “I didn’t get to celebrate my birthday. Paperwork, and meetings, and such.”

“Chocolate, I’m assuming.”

“Any other kind is an insult."

“I won’t tell Belle if you won’t.”

Her older sister, Georgia, had perfected a recipe for vanilla cake and peach icing. Washington District smiled for just a moment, fond. “That’s an exception. Oh-- _and_ , I need to bring some papers--”

“No more politics.”

“-- _need to bring some papers_ to Mr. Kirkland’s office. That’s all. It’s on the way out, even.”

There was a pause. America had gone still, and-- well, just because Washington District had been forced to work with the man, and therefore actually got to _know_ him beyond all her family’s vitriol and working past her own fears… there was still history. Too much history, perhaps.

“Do the two of you get along?” he asked softly.

“He’s-- not what I expected,” she said, “though I… I don’t think he knew what to make of me, at first. And he knows, now, about what happened. But even before that, he never really spoke down to me. He never stared.” She shrugged slightly and tried to smile, though the same as always, the expression felt uncomfortable on her face as the scar tissue there pulled with the action.

“Good.” His voice was still soft, and he hadn’t moved, but he was still smiling, too. Something small and… relieved, she thought, if she was reading things correctly. “I’m… glad.” And then, shaking his head as if to clear old thoughts away, said, “Patrick is going to lose his mind.”

“ _Massachusetts_ can say whatever he wants, but _I’m_ still the capital. Federal law tops out any state legislation.”

“Hey, already sounding like your usual self.”

“Oh-- _hush_.” She blew her nose a third time, scrubbed her hands over her face, took a couple of steadying breaths. America stepped back, waiting for her to compose herself. “God, I’m a mess today.”

“You look fine to me.”

“That joke was only mildly funny a hundred years ago, and it hasn’t gotten better with age.”

“ _Abigail_.” He put one hand to his chest as if taking offense. “That joke is _hilarious_.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” It was more familiar banter, this, something she knew how to handle. The capital picked up his cane, said, “I’m holding your cane in front of you,” so that he could take it, and went back to her desk, looking at the papers in disarray and-- well, some part of her was already dreading coming back in tomorrow and having to do the same thing over again.

This was her job; this was where she _thrived_ , here, in politics. She might actually enjoy the feeling of a day’s work accomplished if so much of her time wasn’t spent convincing others she had the right to be there.

“You know I’ve got your back, Abby.” America was looking in her general direction, hands folded neatly on top of the wooden cane he carried everywhere. It was one that Vermont had made for him, carved himself. The handle was shaped into an eagle’s head, distinct enough he could tell it by its shape, running his fingers over it. “I mean-- I know you can handle things yourself, you’ve been doing that your whole life. But I’ve got your back.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” she said softly. She wouldn’t ask him to fight her battles for her; she never did that. But knowing that he was _there_ , and the rest of her family, too… no matter that they didn’t always get along, she had somewhere to come home to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figures that I actually get some insight into DC's character, in a scenario which makes sense narratively, and it's in an _AU_ instead of the canon series. Alas.
> 
> Ailani -- Kingdom of Hawaii  
> Washington state + the Olympics -- referring to the US rowing team in the 1936 Olympics, comprised of students from Washington State University, who won gold despite everything stacked against them
> 
> Aleutians -- did you know that the Japanese tried to attack the United States through the Aleutian islands chain in Alaska? It didn't go very well for anyone on either side; and they tended to lose more people to weather than to combat.


End file.
